


Sated, tired and in love

by Killer_Prince



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Enemies with benefits?, Explicit Language, FrUK, M/M, Making Out, no smut but sex is discussed, ukfr - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:27:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Prince/pseuds/Killer_Prince
Summary: Contrary to what everyone believes, France and England began sleeping together only months ago. Now, in the aftermath of their second time together, they must face each other and discuss their (sexual) relationship.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Sated, tired and in love

_“Love you 'cause you're sweet and I love you 'cause you're naughty_   
_I love you for your mind, baby give me your body_   
_I wanna be a toy at your birthday party”_

_Tear it up,_ Queen

England wakes up at 9am feeling like he didn’t rest at all. It isn’t far from the truth, he’s been lying in bed wide awake for the past hour, waiting for his arms and legs to recover all the energy spent. His skin is covered in dried sweat, he can’t even open his eyes or shift his position into a more comfortable one. But still, the strangest thing is the heaviness at the bottom of his stomach. Bricks are growing inside of his body, pulling him into a state of total satiety. He realizes, then, that he’s finally, _finally_ had enough sex.

It wouldn’t be too uncharacteristic of him to leave a note and exit the hotel, the problem is that he can’t find the energy necessary to do that right now. It’s like being hungover, in a way, with the difference that there’s no headache or nausea. He feels worn out, exhausted, his mind is barely coming down; soon he’ll be himself again. Like it happens with alcohol, the same old questions pop up in his head. What’s wrong with me? What was I thinking? The mere idea of sex or seeing a naked body right now repels him, makes him wish he was home, reading a book and fully clothed.

Why is it then that he dreads looking at France lying right next to him? It must be because, just like with alcohol, he’s the bad choice England made. That has to be it.

The hotel is still serving breakfast, so they’ll send them what was included in the fee when they first checked in. That was two days ago? Not quite. It's Sunday morning and it was nighttime when they registered. Friday night, the same day France paid him a surprise visit at his office. It was at the last minute, right before he went home, when the other nation knocked on his door. They hadn’t seen each other since… their first time. At least not alone. They agreed it would be the first and only time they slept together, a one time thing, but France decided to break that rule by showing up unannounced.

“I know you won’t take the first step,” he said. “So it’s up to me to chase you.”

Being the exhibitionist he was, he suggested they had sex right there on his desk. Of course England told him to piss off, as France expected. But that idea was necessary in order to make his real plan more appealing in comparison. That’s when he delicately put the sole of his shoe on England's desk and pulled up the leg of his dress pants to reveal a black stocking underneath.

“I’m sure black is your style. I hope you don’t mind that I chose pink heels.”

He prefered black, that much was true, and the mental image of France without his pants was mouth watering. However, there was something about the pink heels that was undoubtedly, unmistakably France.

“Very cheeky of you to believe you can snatch me away from my responsibilities, without even wearing those heels you’re talking about.”

Who could blame him for ‘running away’ with France (as he put it) for the whole weekend? Those stockings went all the way up to his thighs, clipped to equally black suspenders, and the shoes were a disgustingly hot pink that somehow got him going when the frog put them on. How was he supposed to deny himself of such a delicacy?

To top it all, he brought a feather boa that made England think he might as well be attending a carnival. France was a suave man, but he could also be so extra. 

“What’s the point in dressing up if I don’t get to have fun?” He'd said before putting the boa around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

Sex only began after he told him the complete history of how he got those items. The stockings belonged to an exotic dancer, it was the last pair she used before retiring and, on her last day, she gifted them to France saying he was the best lover she ever had. The pink heels were another gift, this time from a woman on the night previous to her wedding day. Again, she gave them to France because he was her best lover. The boa was actually inherited, apparently it was the prized item of a man with a very specific fetish. Of course, he wanted France to keep it because he’d been his best lover.

So now England was in a hotel room with the feather boa of a dead man hanging from the ceiling fan. Tiny, pink bits of feather are scattered around the wooden floor and on the ruffled sheets. His suitcase still rests in a corner, barely touched. England only remembers opening it to retrieve his toothbrush (which he didn't use), not that he packed many things in such short notice.

It was embarrassing how raspy his voice sounded on the phone, he’d never be able to come back to the hotel after this. Before he even puts the phone down, a hand sneaks around his waist and another one rests on his shoulder. England's body tenses up slightly, the bricks are still there, but one by one they start leaving, as France caresses his chest in a devoting way and his lips kiss his jawline from behind. He wants to feel repelled so badly, but his body doesn’t answer him anymore. Maybe what he needed all along was to be held again. _Well shit._

“You haven’t shaved in two days,” he says in a low, deep voice that makes his eyelids flutter shut. “It looks hot on you.” Unkempt would be a better word, but he can’t focus on that, not when his talented tongue licks a stripe up his neck. His teeth catch his earlobe and England turns his body, breaking contact between them.

“Haven’t you had enough?” He asks France, and partially himself.

He lays back on the bed, elegantly sprawled out without a care. The sheets covering only his crotch are a calculated move. He rests his arms behind his head and, even though he doesn't seem well-rested, his figure doesn’t appear overly tired either. From his messy hair to his outstretched toes, France looks like he could keep going on forever.

“It was very sweet of you ordering me breakfast.”

“I did it so you wouldn’t eat mine. It’ll be here in forty minutes, get ready.”

“What’s the rush? We still have time.”

“Not when I’m starving.”

“I’m starving too…” His eyes travel down England’s body, scanning all the hickeys scattered over his skin. There’s a mark he left on his lower abdomen that drove him crazy when the Frenchman sucked it, right before sucking something else. France can’t help biting his lip. “It’s a shame you can’t keep up with me.”

England shakes his head, he knows what he’s doing and he won’t fall for it.

“I could if I wasn’t tired.”

“That’s the very definition of not being able to keep up.” France rolls his eyes, then reaches out to touch his thigh but his hand is stopped by England’s.

“Don’t test me.” There’s the faintest curve of a smirk.

When France gives him a smug smile and attempts to touch him again, England pins his hand down on the bed. By now it’s too late, he crawls up on top of him, both of them know exactly how this will turn out.

“But you love it when I test you.” France says playfully, his body already squirming in anticipation.

“I hate it.” His eyes instantly go to his lips and England swallows. “... Making out a bit wouldn’t be too terrible.”

“Yes, just making out.”

The left side of his neck has only one hickey, there’s space England hasn’t marked up yet and France knows it, so he does the sensible thing and tilts his head to expose more of that side.

“Maybe we do have time for more...”

Without further ado he takes his mouth in a fervent kiss and France tangles his fingers on his hair, the hair pulling kink is definitely a mutual thing.

“Mmhm, tell me how good I look... ”

“You’re such a needy, horny, _handsome_ frog,” he says the word against his ear for good measure, then devours his neck with wet kisses and bites. As soon as the first delicious moan leaves France’s mouth, England rips the sheets off him and makes himself comfortable between his legs one more time.

By the time they’re done, England is still kissing his collarbone, his chest, his neck; he can’t bring himself to pull away right after his orgasm, not when he’s still soaking in the afterglow. France is panting quietly, his hairy buttock feels soft and warm under his sticky fingers and he considers he wouldn't mind going for another—

A knock on the door tells them breakfast is waiting outside.

“Alright, I called them… So… Can you…?” Says a breathless England. He looks up and is greeted by France’s sweaty expression of disbelief.

“Excuse me? My face is still covered in your cum.” He raises a cum-covered brow at him.

“Okay— You’ve got a point.”

England throws on one of the hotel’s robes and tries to catch his breath moments before opening the door, sadly he does a shit job at it. There’s even the ‘do not disturb’ sign still hanging outside. The smell of a warm cup of tea, coffee and pastries bring him back to his senses, he doesn’t know when was the last time he ate something solid. He tips the waiter and insists on taking the tray inside himself, the good man really shouldn’t bother.

On the bed, France is still sprawled out but his face is now clean thanks to the sheets. A pity, really. He hasn’t said much since they finished, while coming down from his high he seemed to be thinking about something only he knew. Or perhaps France can also feel the bricks this time, the same satiety England is starting to experience again now that he’s disentangled from his body. That heavy sense that he’s had too much, more than necessary.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” England’s first instinct is to expect the worst, but the expression on France’s face doesn’t seem as serious anymore, it shifts into an uncomfortable one, he’s struggling to keep eye contact and his lips are pressed together. He knows that face, it’s the same one he gave him when they first discussed the idea of sleeping together. “You have to promise me you won’t laugh.”

That cheers him up and he can’t contain a half smile.

“If you say that, it’s because you know it’s something I’ll find funny.”

To keep himself distracted, France busies himself playing with a stand of hair. “I don’t care if it’s funny or not, you mustn’t laugh because I wouldn’t do it if it was you.”

“You would absolutely laugh. Just tell me what it is.” England crosses his arms and braces himself for the news.

“It's my leg… I think I pulled a muscle having sex with you.”

Here his eyes return to England to see his reaction. Maybe it wouldn’t be that funny if France hadn’t told him not to mock him. England has to cover his mouth to stifle a laugh and, when he gets a stern look in return, he just can’t help himself anymore.

“You know, your old age might be affecting you.”

“I told you not to laugh at me!”

“I’m not! How did it even happen? Last round you were just lying—”

“It was before the last round and before the previous one too. I can’t recall exactly when it happened, it just did.”

“Did I cause this?” England questions, and he’s filled with an odd sense of pride because he, of all people, made France himself pull a muscle in bed. For a brief moment he considers making a joke about getting him a wheelchair, only to discard it. God knows he shouldn’t feel proud for something like this, but it still boosts his ego a little bit.

“ _No_ , England. You didn't fuck me so hard you broke my leg." When he says this, France tries to be as condescendng as possible. "I did it myself when I was riding you, I pushed myself too far. That’s why I had to do it lying down the next couple of rounds, not because I was a pillow princess as you so kindly suggested.”

“It was an affirmation.”

“You must think you’re very funny. Did I screw your brains out?”

“If anything, I did the screwing.”

“You did, Mr. I-can’t-handle-a-dick.”

“I can handle yours just fine!”

“I’m not talking about your hands or your mouth.”

“If I don’t use them I might end up on a wheelchair like you.”

There, he made the wheelchair joke.

France stares at him in sheer horror, his mouth hanging open.

“You keep making stupid jokes, I _did_ screw your brains out. Figuratively speaking.” After thinking it twice, he smirks smugly. “Or are you trying to say my cock is too big for you?”

“Shut up. Which leg was it?”

“The right one. It’s my thigh, to be exact.”

“Frog, are you kidding? I stretched that leg, I bent it, put it over my shoulder— Why didn’t you say anything sooner? I might have made it worse!” He remembers exactly what he did to that leg, he remembers the whole night quite vividly, actually.

“I thought I was just tired!” France lets out a sigh and sits up. “The least you can do is give me a massage, I deserve it.”

“Oh, you’re going to blame me for this?”

“You blamed yourself!”

“You insisted we had that last round. It’ll be fine in a few hours, like always.”

“In that case, why don’t you just cut it off for me? It’ll stop my suffering and my leg will grow back in a few hours.”

“You know it’s not the bloody same.”

“There’s a knife right there, you can use it.”

“I will if you’re so fragile!” He massages his temples. It’s not even his leg the one hurt, but France still manages to put him through the same amount of pain. “Can’t we just have breakfast?”

They settle everything down on the bed so that France can stay in a comfortable position with a pillow under his leg. However, after he’s done with his coffee and croissants, he gets up with ease and announces he’ll take a shower. England doesn’t make any comments, not because he thinks he lied about the pain, but because he finds it surprising that France is the first one to take a shower. He usually goes back to sleep after sex, England expected that laziness to be intesified with breakfast. What he doesn’t know is that France, just moments ago, began to realize how long they’ve been in that room. Over the course of breakfast he noticed the stickiness on his body, the smell in the room and the closed windows that didn’t let the morning light in. A whole weekend practically trapped in a hotel with England. That notion suffocated him. It definitely was a situation he put himself in, he couldn’t believe he cancelled all his plans without thinking it twice. A missed date with an art gallery owner, wasted tickets to the theater, lunch at that new restaurant cancelled.

When he comes out England is still in bed waiting for him to finish, still in that robe half open that reveals his skin. He still smells of sex and looks like a mess and France has to stop himself from feeling that tingle in his stomach, instead he opens the two windows to let in the light and some fresh air. The sun warmths his face and France thinks he must’ve really improved England’s mood if today isn’t cloudy. Even if the view consists mostly of streets, a river can be seen from afar, that sight alone makes him feel less like a tiger in a cage. Would it be too cowardly of him to climb out and escape from this situation? He puts on the other robe, something that’s clean and doesn’t have England’s scent imprinted. Did he even bring spare clothes? There’s the bag he packed before visiting the other’s office, but it probably has just one other shirt, not even a second pair of pants. Who was he becoming?!

“I suppose we should sort this out.”

“I suppose,” England sighs. “We said it’d be a one time thing.”

“Yes, about that...” He sits on the couch opposite to the bed, he really doesn’t trust himself right now. “What can I say? I couldn’t help it, neither did you.”

England purses his lips, there’s nothing he can say against the ugly truth.

“You didn’t make it easy showing up in my office like that.”

“Fair enough, but you didn’t leave after we finished the first round.”

“It was—”

Irresistible. France was irresistible and that thought makes him want to bang his head against a wall.

“Of course I wasn’t going to leave after the first bloody round, it wasn’t nearly enough.” He runs a hand through his hair. It’s only at this moment, after all of the mindblowing sex that he can think things through. His body feels so sated and tired and overwhelmed, but he’s certain that if France made a move on him he would follow through. “It was like I needed more and more, like it happened the first time. The difference is that we had a whole weekend for ourselves. Only now I’m able to think properly.”

“I know what you mean.”

England looks up at him, recognizes the look and knows he’s not alone. This time for sure.

“I wasn’t using my head either! I guess we had to get everything out of our systems in order to think again. La petite mort, maybe. You have a more exact term for this situation in English. Post-nut clarity, I believe.”

“You’re America right now...” Says a scandalized England. “That’s something America would say!”

France merely shrugs. “Well, he got it right when he coined that term. You know, I was certain you wouldn’t come to me first, so I had to do it,” France adds. “The idea was so tempting and I couldn’t keep it out of my mind, no matter who I took to bed.”

It’s a known fact that France isn’t exactly lacking in partners, but hearing it now makes England pout slightly without noticing it at all, too absorbed in the idea of France being in someone else’s arms. The other nation notices the jealousy and there’s two things he doesn’t understand: How can England pout if he just admitted no one was good enough to make him forget about their time together? Secondly, and more scary, why does he find him cute? It shouldn’t be surprising though, if he can consider England sexy then of course he can also find him cute.

It would be fun to tease him about it, it’ll definitely rile him up. For once, he decides against it.

“I couldn't stand not doing it again.” France can barely believe his own words, where was his common sense back then? “Maybe we opened a door we can’t close anymore, what if there’s no way to go back to normal after this?”

“Well, we have to find it! We can’t keep romping like rabbits everytime we have a chance.”

“You think we should just stay away?”

“Exactly.”

“It’ll only be worse if we bottle things up, it’ll come out eventually.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

France helplessly tries to think of something, _anything_. Abstinence isn’t his specialty, it’s not his style to repress his desire and deny himself of pleasure. He collapses down on the couch with a whine, a hand over his forehead.

“I curse our magnetic attraction!”

England rolls his eyes at the dramatic display.

“We’ll probably forget about this in a few centuries.”

“Pfft!” France snorts. “You’ll never be able to forget about me.”

“Same goes to you, idiot.”

Both of them know it’s true. They won’t be able match the pleasure and chemistry they shared with anyone else, it was stronger than them. What they were about to give up wouldn’t be found again and it would stay in the back of their minds as an itch that would never be scratched.

Their eyes meet once again.

“It won’t work, will it?” England says out loud.

The question is left unanswered. After a moment of pointless thinking, France crawls into bed and wraps his arms and legs around England into a warm hug.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he warns France. “I haven’t showered yet, I must smell like onions and lube.”

His chuckle is muffled into England’s shoulder, it makes him smile to hear it and to find that France doesn’t pull away. Neither does he. His cheek rests on France’s forehead and his hand caresses the injured thigh in a soft massage. England chastises him for being so reckless with his leg, even then the careful massage doesn't stop. It doesn’t go further than that, they simply rest in each other’s arms until they fall asleep, their breaths the only sound they hear. It’s probably the first time they cuddled like this since they were kids. Without realizing it, their bodies relax and this time they remain like that, at ease.

France is the first one to leave hours later, England stays longer in order to take a shower and pack his things with time, after all, he isn’t the one with a long trip ahead. They came to the agreement of doing it again and again and again. It’d happen once every three months, no more and no less, they’d consider taking a whole weekend under the right circumstances, until they got what they needed from each other. If they decided to stop at some point, then that would be the end of it. Though that part of the deal was merely a formality, both of them knew there was no way they could stop it.

One of France’s heels was left behind on the bed. _A little souvenir, keep it until it gets reunited with its other half,_ it read. England was looking forward to it. He wondered if he could get France to wear black heels one day, maybe even thigh high red boots, there would be plenty of opportunities. He inspected the shoe and, out of curiosity, tried it on.

It fit.

Not bad. Again, not his colour, but if he had to be honest, it made him feel sexy. He supposed he could entertain himself with it in the meantime, until it got reunited with its other half.

**Author's Note:**

> As some of you know, English isn't my first language, so let me know if there's anything to correct or something that sounds better phrased diffrently.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
